Accountability
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: When the right tool for the job isn't a coat-hanger.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Thanks, Owl and Cheri, for holding the grammatical line.

**Author's Note: **At the beginning of the second season episode "One of the Girls from Accounting", Mark discovers that the judge has claimed him as a ward on his income tax form. He begs to differ, saying it will never wash with the IRS. When Kathy Kasternack (soon-to-be CPA and a near-victim of a rogue police conspiracy) takes refuge under Hardcastle's roof, Mark puts it to her, as a hypothetical. In her considered opinion a man who is paid a monthly wage is an employee. As to why the judge was messing with his income tax forms in November—your guess is as good as mine.

**Accountability**

by L.M. Lewis

_April 1985_

She looked at the W-2 form he'd handed her, and then at the shoebox full of scraps of paper—mostly receipts—and then at him again. "But why in heaven's name did you wait so long?"

Mark's smile was nervously lopsided. He wasn't sure a pizza and a bottle of wine was going to cover what he'd owe her.

"It must've come last month." His smile had become a grimace. "Last month was kinda busy."

She knew about Hardcastle having been shot, of course. This massive understatement at least got him a look of understanding sympathy, but when her gaze returned to the form, it was more critical. "You made _how_ much working for this company last year?"

"Not a red cent. I swear." Mark even crisscrossed his heart with his right index finger and drew his hand up into a sharp Boy Scout pledge sign. "And it sure as hell wasn't fifteen thousand dollars."

He nodded at the W-2 she was still examining. "They can't make me pay income tax on that, can they? I didn't even clear two thousand last year with Hardcase." He frowned. After everything that had happened the last month and a half, it didn't seem as though money ought to matter, but there it was—that irrational piece of paper he'd found in an unopened stack of mail that he must have pushed aside back in late February.

"Did you actually _receive_ the money?" Kathy persisted gravely.

"A check, _yeah_—a month's pay and some kind of 'incentive bonus'—but I never cashed it."

"Why not?"

"I'd already quit before it arrived."

"But you'd actually worked for them?" She was looking puzzled. Mark understood that. He'd never mentioned the Waverly water filter episode to her. He avoided mentioning it to _anyone. _The whole incident had been that embarrassing.

"They were shut down for fraud," he said, keeping it clipped and quiet.

"_Ah_," her face was lit with sudden understanding, "it was an _investigation_."

"Not exactly," he muttered. He wasn't sure why he couldn't lie to her about this. After all, there had been an investigation; it was just that he hadn't been part of it.

He sighed heavily. "I had a fight with Hardcastle." It sounded so stupid now, especially in the light of recent events. "I took a hike. I was looking for a job, and this Waverly guy was looking for a patsy. It was a match made in heaven."

Kathy was staring at him with some fixity, probably a reflection of how stupid it sounded to her, too. She spared one more look for the W-2, shaking her head slightly as though that might clarify things. "But you never actually _cashed_ the check?"

"Of course not," Mark said glumly. "If I had, I'd have the money to pay the income tax."

"So . . . how come you didn't?"

He glanced up at her sharply. It sounded like innocent curiosity rather than any assumptions about him. He thought maybe he was just a little too sensitive about stuff like that.

"Look," he explained patiently, "it was one of those pyramid scams—a Ponzi." He was sure he didn't have to explain that to an almost-CPA. "I suppose the check might've been worth something if I'd gotten it to the bank quick enough, but only 'cause I'd gotten somebody else's money. He was selling worthless water filter franchises."

She was staring again. He was uncomfortable under her gaze, though he no longer felt as if he were being judged.

She finally said, "That's what most people do, you know. They try and get theirs and the heck with everyone else. That's what a run on a bank is. I'd be guessing this 'Waverly, Inc.' is going to be tied up in litigation for the next ten years." She smiled. "I'm glad you're not part of that."

"I almost was," Mark pointed out. "I mean, if Hardcastle hadn't clued me in—"

"A good Ponzi is hard to spot. Some of them have gone on for _years._"

"Well," Mark admitted, "the judge knew this guy Waverly from way back."

"See? Good thing that it was you he hired. Anyone else and it might have gone undetected for who knows how long? Hundreds of people's lives ruined—"

"Ah," Mark frowned, "you mean everything happens for a reason?"

Kathy nodded once. "Seems like it."

He couldn't really argue with a point he'd made a couple of times himself. Still . . . "The money—do I owe it?"

She shook her head definitively. "No, not if you have an uncashed check, though you might want to consider self-voiding it—with a notary's seal on that—just in case."

Mark let out a massive sigh of relief. One more bullet dodged. He hadn't been sure how 'failure to pay back-taxes' figured into the big scheme of things, but the idea of coming to the attention of the parole board again this soon for _any_ reason had terrified him.

"Is it safe to come out there?" It was Hardcastle's grumbling voice, along with his thumping gait, now audible on the back steps. "You two done spooning?"

Mark glanced over his shoulder and grinned self-consciously as he shoveled the W-2 and a couple of stray receipts back into the shoebox and put the whole mess down on the ground. "'_Spooning_'? Judge, I'll have you know we were discussing accounting issues."

"I'll bet." Hardcastle eased himself into one of the patio chairs. He only glanced down at the box for a moment, but one eyebrow rose briefly.

Mark nudged it a little further under the table with one foot. He wasn't sure if Kathy had picked up on his desire to have the matter stay off the record—as part of his ongoing program to keep Hardcastle's recovery as unexciting as possible—but her attention shifted directly to the man in question as though she'd just remembered something.

"What you were asking me about—" she was obviously addressing the judge, "I ran it by one of my professors."

Hardcastle's brief blank look was suddenly replaced with a quietly frenetic series of small gestures that contrasted with his almost wooden smile, and a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. Mark understood it at once, though the man hardly ever resorted to such subtleties around him when a simple "Shut up!" would do. Kathy, who only spoke limited Hardcastle, took a moment longer to catch on.

She did an admirable about-face, though, and covered her tracks in retreat with an innocuous comment about the definition of the employee-employer relationship. This at least gave McCormick a clue as to where the conversation had been headed to originally, since that was a nearly direct quote from a few months ago, when Hardcastle had been blithely trying to claim a deduction for his 'ward'.

Now the judge was doing everything in his power to cover Kathy's withdrawal. He slapped his hands together with a show of enthusiasm and said, "How 'bout some burgers?"

Hardcastle was the undisputed grill-master of the household, so any suggestion of burgers meant he intended to do the cooking.

Mark frowned. "It's too hot for that. Anyway, I already phoned in the pizza order. I was just heading out to pick it up."

That much was the absolute truth. The next part was improv as he turned to Kathy and asked, "You wanna keep me company?"

She smiled and gave that a quick, agreeable nod. Mark ignored Hardcastle's slightly unsettled look as he reached down to scoop up his shoebox, shielding the uppermost of the contents with his arm as he cradled it in.

"Meet you out front," he said to Kathy as he stood and headed toward the gatehouse to deposit the evidence. Part of not stressing Hardcastle out was giving him a minute or two to settle whatever issue he and Kath had been discussing—not that Mark doubted he could pry it out of her anyway.

00000

They rendezvoused by the fountain and climbed into the truck. She didn't look particularly troubled, and if she'd been sworn to any kind of secrecy the effect was subtle. It wasn't all that long a haul to the pizza place, so Mark broached the subject almost before they'd cleared the Gull's Way gate.

"You're coming in pretty handy these days," he said nonchalantly. "First me and my income tax troubles, and then Hardcastle and—" he broke off and essayed a look of mild puzzlement before he added, "whatever it was that he was asking about." Another pause of calculated indifference and then a very mildly curious, "One of the files, maybe? A lot of these guys we go after practice creative accounting."

"Oh, no, nothing like that," she said airily.

"What, then?" Mark asked, aware that it had come out a little more pointed than he'd intended.

His equally sharp sideward glance encountered her more thoughtful expression, but he thought maybe he'd misread some signals back on the patio. Kathy didn't seem to be in the throes of an ethical dilemma; it was more as if she were trying to figure out what all the fuss was about.

Of course she wouldn't get it. He'd only exposed the tip of the Waverly water filter debacle to her. He hadn't discussed the ongoing, slightly grating uncertainty that went along with being the oldest teenager in Malibu. His indeterminate status had been particularly apparent this past month. Hardcastle's hospitalization had set the whole situation in bold outline.

"He didn't just come up with that idea as some kind of tax scam," Mark muttered abruptly. "He really does think of it that way—that I'm some sort of 'ward' of his." He grimaced. "I'm thirty, for crissake. I've been on my own for—" he halted in mid-phrase and then added vaguely, "a _long_ time." His grimace became a more fixed expression of discontent. It took a moment before the silence sank in and he realized that Kathy was staring at him.

"What on earth are you talking about?" she finally asked.

Mark glanced back at her, suddenly a lot less certain about his deductions. It was just that the timing—and Hardcastle's apparent secretiveness—had seemed so suited to the subject.

"The question," he started hesitantly, "the one Hardcastle asked you—it wasn't about me?"

"Well," Kathy looked even more thoughtful, "yes, it was—"

"_See_," Mark interjected triumphantly, "there—I really am a ward. That's just how he sees it. And he thinks if something happened to him I'd be out on the street and the next thing you know I'd be putting crimps in a metal coat hanger." He stared at the road in front of him, lips set tight. "I wouldn't."

He cast another quick look sideward. The expression on Kathy's face was somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

"Well, I _wouldn't_," he said sullenly.

"Of course not," she laughed lightly, "and he wasn't trying to figure out how to keep you off the street. _Really._"

"But—"

"But it _was_ on account of him getting shot," she added in sudden seriousness. "At least that's how it seemed to me. It was that time I came to see him, when he was still in the hospital."

Mark nodded in uncertain recollection. It had been a long two weeks fraught with a lot of ill-rested worry. Even now there were parts that were blurry.

"You stepped out to get some coffee." She was frowning in recollection, too. "I think he sent you out—said you looked like you needed some."

Mark nodded again. He'd been too caught up in greater concerns to be suspicious of the judge's motives back then.

"And as soon as you were gone, he started asking me about joint accounts and springing power of attorney."

Mark thought his confusion must have been evident on his face. "'Power of attorney'?"

"I don't think he'd thought about it before—most people don't. Well, they have a will and all that, but what happens if rather than dying, they're incapacitated?"

Mark couldn't help it; the proximity of both possibilities sent a cold shiver down his spine. It was a moment before he considered the further ramifications. "He has somebody—an estate manager. His name is Fedders, I think."

"Yes, he mentioned that, but it's not the same. He said he'd ducked a bullet this time," she smiled wanly, "though I guess you could say that wasn't exactly true. Anyway, he wanted to make sure there was someone who'd look after things—look after _him_—if something happened."

"But _I_ would," Mark said without thinking. Then he frowned. "Doesn't he know that?"

"It's not a matter of intent," she pointed out. "It's a matter of having the right and the wherewithal. Anyway, he just wanted to know what would work better—a simple joint account or something more involved."

"Ah." Mark drove in silence for a moment and then, in a tone of dawning wonderment. "_Me_?"

"Uh-huh."

"But I'm . . ."

"The person he wanted to be in charge, just in case."

"But there's—"

"Nobody else he wanted—just you."

Mark fell silent again. Really, the most amazing thing was not so much the choice, as the fact that Hardcase was willing to face the decision at all. And now that the crisis was past, it was no surprise that the man was back to not wanting to talk about it.

"Anyway," she said, "while you were off squirreling away your receipts, he told me he'd already spoken to that Fedders guy about it and taken care of the paperwork. It's all squared away. Oh, and he said there wasn't any reason to bring it up over dinner or anything like that." She sighed heavily. "You _two_—murder is okay, but fiscal planning, God forbid." She shook her head in sad resignation.

Mark felt a slight grin emerging. He tried to squelch it. He didn't want to think about the circumstances that would invoke his emergency powers. Anyway, there were any number of things that didn't get discussed over dinner. God forbid, indeed.

And he thought as long as his new responsibilities were purely hypothetical they came as a welcome relief. Just footing the estate's utility bills alone would have kept him and a couple of coat hangers busy.


End file.
